The Stream Poem by Mary Champion

The weird wonder of water-
the rebellious, reactionary compound;
non-conformist to its core;
challenging the laws of physics
as we thought we understood them.
Prerequisite of life.
Translucent silver sliding over stumbling stones.
And, ranged haphazardly along the uneven banks,
lLike awestruck spectators
of a passing pageant,
the trees - ancient and modern.
Bark warped and lined and scarred with age.
Bark smooth as shot silk.
Some have witnessed several centuries of seasons,
deepened their roots and spread their branches
with each passing year.
Some too young to remember
the last great storm that felled
their ancestors.
The quivering leaves,
reflected in the ever-changing sun-lit surface
become formless-
a blur of greens merging and blending
into emerald jewels.

In deeper pools, in basins gouged out of the rock
by slow flowing glaciers,
long before even the oldest trees could bear witness,
small fish dart hither and thither,
in and out of the glistening green, weedy tresses
clinging to the rocks and stones,
surfacing only to snatch a hapless insect
or a teasing raindrop.

Nearby, chattering children splash
and play -trying to trap the fishes
with make-shift nets-
old saucepans,
colourful buckets
left over from a trip to the seaside.
But even a fish brain
can outwit these clumsy fishermen-
most of the time.
Just one shrieks joyfully-
triumphantly indicating
the tiny minnow
in the battered pan.

Further on,
where the mossy wooden footbridge
fords the stream,
two babbling boys play pooh sticks;
encouraged by nostalgic grandparents
blissfully reliving their own childhoods,
passing on another tradition.

Past reeds and rushes,
sedges and grasses,
yellow flags and loosestrife,
majestic Marsh Marigolds.
Willows bow their heads
brushing the surface
with languid fronds.

Faster now, as it tumbles downhill
then slowing and broadening as the land levels again.
A mallard clan - busily ducking and diving
take advantage of the stream's bounty.

And then, meeting its nemesis,
surrendering its identity as
the child friendly tributary
is absorbed into the river
and lost.